


Succumb

by lxghtwoodlxve



Series: Angsty Oneshots/Drabbles by Trin [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, I wrote this in about half an hour, Is this a drabble?, Sansa-centric, Spoilers, The Long Night, basically it's a sansa drabble and i'm sad, drabble?, the battle of winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 19:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18644359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lxghtwoodlxve/pseuds/lxghtwoodlxve
Summary: Sansa knew it would end this way.





	Succumb

**Author's Note:**

> hello this is my first GoT writing so absolutely destroy me please  
> it's a drabble because i'm having feelings but i'm also at work so yikes  
> be aware that this mentions some of the things she's gone through, although not explicitly - please keep yourselves safe, okay? i'm not gonna be mad if you click away.  
> other than that, enjoy!  
> \- t xo

Sansa knew it would end this way.

She’s trapped here, unable to protect her people, these loyal families and brave children, and all she’s got is an anxious chest and a dagger she doesn’t know how to use. They’re crying, some of them. She can understand that, truly; she wants to break down and sob, to just give up and let someone else take charge for once, but she hates losing control like that. Ever since she got to King’s Landing, all those years ago, she couldn’t afford to be weak.

She has to be strong. She _has_ to be. She doesn’t have a choice.

It’s like the Blackwater all over again. She doesn’t have the childish innocence anymore, she doesn’t believe enough to pray, she doesn’t feel enough to comfort anyone. She doesn’t have the hope, the will to believe that everything will be okay, because nothing has been okay for a long time. Not since her father’s head got cut off, not since Joffrey or Cersei or Littlefinger or Ramsay.

Her only comfort is the man sat beside her - this brave, smart, kind man, the only man that hasn’t actually hurt her, not directly. He may have brought a foreign invader into her home ( _the home she won back_ ) but she knows that it’s necessary. She’s seen how many of the dead have come. She’s seen the horror.

She never wants to see it again. She can’t breathe.

And then, the wights are breaking through the tombs - _her family, these are her ancestors coming to kill them, nothing is sacred, nothing is safe_ \- and she’s cowering behind the tomb of a relative she doesn’t have the wits to remember the name of. And Tyrion’s beside her, grasping her hand, eyes pleading, looking for something, and she brings the knife from out of her belt.

They both stare at it for a moment glistening in the candlelight, tortured screams fading away into the background, and then their eyes meet, and understanding flashes across his face. It’s been seconds, or minutes, or hours, she really can’t tell. But they both understand that they’re not coming out of this alive. Because they’re weak.

They can’t fight, not like Jon or Arya. They don’t ride dragons like Danaerys. They’re not Unsullied, or Dothraki, and nor are they knights. They have weak bodies, yes, but strong minds, like Missandei. She pretends not to notice, but she’s noticed. The Targaryen army has only been here for a few weeks, and she’s seen Missandei talking in at least four languages already. Grudgingly, reluctantly, she's impressed all the same.

Like Bran. Crippled yet reckless. A far-away stare, soul-piercing, all-knowing. _Oh Gods… Bran, Bran he’s going to die, he’s says he's not my brother anymore but he’s my family and he’s going to leave me again-_

Like Theon. A protector now, brave and noble, humble yet fierce, and _he’s going to die too, he’s going to leave, just as he’s redeemed himself he’s gone, nothing good lasts, you don’t deserve anything good do you Sansa-_

These thoughts happen in the few moments it takes Tyrion to process the pact they unwittingly sealed, and then kiss her hand. It’s proper, it’s chaste, it’s _wrong it’s so wrong it’s going to happen again, isn’t it, she’s made for misery, it’s perfect for her it’s all she deserves-_

He lets it drop, and she breathes again. It’s quiet for a brief moment, and he goes.

She’ll follow. She has to.


End file.
